


though I am native here

by analineblue



Category: No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analineblue/pseuds/analineblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shion thinks maybe he’s always known what would happen if that wall actually came down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	though I am native here

**Author's Note:**

> So while I really wanted to do a fix-it for the anime and the novels and everything, I realized I sort of had to focus on one thing at a time? So this is a fix-it focusing on the events at the end of the anime, but with a slight twist – Nezumi leaves roughly one week later, not immediately. (Because no matter how I tried to spin it, his leaving felt too rushed to me in the anime.)

_But to my mind, though I am native here  
And to the manner born, it is a custom  
More honored in the breach than the observance._

\- Hamlet, Act I, scene IV

_You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal — except my life — except my life — except my life._

\- Hamlet, Act II, scene II

***

The days that follow the fall of No. 6 are frantic and rushed and more than anything Shion just wants to cling to Nezumi, to remind himself that they’ve both survived, that no matter how rough it had been, they’ve made it, they’re _here_. 

Shion is vigilant; he makes sure he doesn’t lose sight of Nezumi, even for a second, tugging him close while they navigate the crowds that have somehow spilled out of every nook and cranny of the city and beyond.

And in the darkness Shion tries as hard as he can to lose himself in Nezumi’s skin, in his hair, in the light press of his lips against Nezumi’s neck, and in the steady rhythm of Nezumi’s heart thumping in his chest.

It’s the most alive Shion thinks he’s ever felt, and he can see it in Nezumi’s eyes too - now that the wall is gone the barrier between them seems to be gone too. 

There’s something else at work here though, something stronger, maybe. 

Shion catches its scent sometimes, in a glance, or a touch here and there. He’s not supposed to notice; he knows he’s not, but he _does_ , and there’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do at all except to just keep going on being alive, so that hopefully someday they can both forget about that brief moment in time when he _wasn’t_. 

But it’s impossible and it’s unnerving and Shion has no idea how to even begin to address it, so he doesn’t. He can’t get it out of his mind. It makes him wonder if dying has somehow left him less of a person now that he’s come back. It makes him dizzy and nauseous sometimes, even thinking about it, so he tries not to. But he feels it in the air between them sometimes, heavy and anxious and inexplicably cold. 

They stay in his old room - the storage space above the bakery. It feels cramped and nothing at all like Nezumi’s room in the West Block. There had been so much of _Nezumi_ in that space, as if the walls and the books had absorbed certain fragments of his warmth and his life. There’s none of that here, and the absence weighs on Shion. They salvaged what books they could from the old room, stacking them as neatly as possible between the towering bags of sugar, and the flour, but it’s not enough. The room feels empty, even like this. 

Anxiety hangs in the air like the threat of a storm, and Shion can’t seem to shake it. Like he’s waiting for something, only he can’t imagine what, because he has everything he wants right here.

**

It’s late one evening and Shion emerges from his bath to an empty room. 

It’s been exactly one week since the fall of No. 6, and as to be expected, life hasn’t really fallen back into place yet. So many people need help, and there’s so much to be done that _doing_ it, or leaving it for someone else isn’t really a choice. Shion and Nezumi have been helping where they can – shuttling food to the shelters housing the refugees from the West Block, moving boxes of supplies, making room, clearing debris. Today had been a long day, one that started before dawn, and stopped only for several rushed meals between jobs. It’s hard work, but Shion is grateful for the exhaustion, for the tension and pull in his muscles that makes him feel useful and needed.

When he’d gone to take his bath, he’d left Nezumi on his bed with a pile of dusty books and had expected to find him engrossed in one of them upon his return. But the room is empty. In fact, the whole house is empty. 

He finds Nezumi outside, of course, up on the terrace that looks down over the street. It’s nothing like viewing the sweeping landscape of No. 6 from the West Block, but it’s probably the closest thing to it here. Shion’s chest clenches as he watches Nezumi stare out over the city streets; he wonders what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. 

Nezumi’s eyes are dark and distant when he meets Shion’s, and Shion thinks it looks a bit like the night sky has been burned into them. 

“So this is where you were,” he says softly, stating the obvious, filling the silence with words, though he’s sure his vocabulary is as inadequate as ever. “I’m finished now, so you can go ahead.” 

Nezumi nods, his eyes never leaving Shion’s face, and eventually his features soften. 

“Come here,” he says, and Shion shivers a little and runs the towel over his head before he crosses over to Nezumi. 

Before he presses their lips together, Nezumi touches them first with his fingers. The rough pads of his fingertips catch on Shion’s skin, tiny little pricks of resistance that make Shion’s heart pound because they feel so real, because they remind him of everything they came through to get here; because they’re _Nezumi’s_ fingers, and he’s always loved the feel of Nezumi’s fingers on his skin. 

And then Nezumi kisses him, and for a moment the world rights itself. Everything slots back into place, and the oddness of the past few days, of Nezumi being here in No. 6, fades a little. Nezumi had been here years ago, sure, but back then it had felt like they were the only two people on the planet. Now there’s Shion’s mother, and countless others. People have come out of the protective shells of their homes – they’re moving about the streets, now. It’s so crowded during the day, and when the night comes there’s something terrifying about it, about its utter blackness, a different sort of fear than had been present in that tiny room in the West Block. 

Shion longs for that comforting space often, but not right now, not when Nezumi is pressed so close against him that he can feel his heart beating and can make out all of the lines and curves of his body, even through so many layers of clothing. With Nezumi so close, all Shion can do is lose himself in him. 

Nezumi pulls away a moment later, and Shion tries not to let his body droop in response; he tries to stay firm, and alive, and happy, because he is… He’s so happy. That Nezumi is alive, that _he’s_ alive. 

Nezumi’s eyes are bright and warm, warmer than Shion thinks they’ve ever been, but there’s something lying behind that brightness and warmth, something that hasn’t faded in these days since No. 6’s liberation, and in his heart Shion knows what’s coming. He knows that this is probably what he’s been waiting for. Shion thinks maybe he’s always known what would happen if that wall actually came down. 

“Shion,” Nezumi says, and with his thumb, he traces the line of Shion’s scar across his cheek lightly. There’s no way to cling to the touch, but Shion thinks his skin is dancing anyway, rising up to meet Nezumi’s fingers. 

“You know I can’t stay here,” Nezumi says, and it’s not a question, but a statement of absolute fact, and Shion tries as hard as he can not to feel as if the world has stopped turning on its axis. 

**

To be fair, Nezumi had always told him, had always sworn to him that this would be the inevitable result, if they were to succeed. 

Nezumi didn’t think he had a place here, in No. 6, and Shion had always thought he couldn’t have been more _wrong_ , but then again, he’s not sure he ever did understand anything about Nezumi, about what he was actually feeling, about what he _needed_.

Nezumi leaves at midday, and the bright sunlight bathes everything in a white hot, blinding glow, so that Shion can’t quite make out his features. It hardly matters. 

Nezumi is leaving, going somewhere Shion isn’t allowed to follow. 

A kiss of oath. 

A promise. 

Shion watches him go. He watches Nezumi’s back fade into the horizon, into the blinding sunlight, and then he doesn’t move again for hours and hours, until the sun has fallen below his field of vision, until it has completely disappeared from the sky. 

He’s surprised he’s able to find his way back home in the inky, impossibly black darkness.

**

Looking back on it, the details are always pretty fuzzy, steeped in a strange sort of soupy haze. Of course his mother asks him why Nezumi left, and in his heart, Shion thinks he knows the answer, but it’s not the sort of thing one puts into words very easily, so instead he finds himself offering a sort of meandering exegesis on Nezumi’s character, a recap of the months leading up to their invasion of the correctional facility. He talks about all the things he’s learned from Nezumi, how many times Nezumi had saved his life, about how integral he had been in helping them save No. 6, and about how at the core, Nezumi had always been a wanderer, a performer. There was no theater to speak of here anymore. The theater in the West Block had been destroyed and in No. 6, of course, there was no theater at all. 

He doesn’t mention the fact that it feels like Nezumi has taken the entire world with him. 

He thinks he might, if she asks again, but she doesn’t, as if it makes perfect sense that Nezumi’s not here, and eventually the memory fades and it’s just bright light and Nezumi’s back, and a promise that Shion knows he’s more than a little bit crazy to believe in.

_There’s no meaning in a world without you_ , Shion had said – his one and only plea to Nezumi that day. Nezumi had scoffed at him, of course, but Shion remembers the look in his eyes. As if he’d known exactly what Shion had meant. As if maybe this was the entire reason he was going in the first place.

Shion catalogues this look away along with so many others, all of these things that Nezumi has given him - glances, touches, words – these gifts, every single one of them is important. Shion stores them all away, somewhere close to his heart, somewhere he can find them whenever he needs them. 

And then he tries to figure out what he’s supposed to do next. 

**

He’s not sure that he ever really succeeds, but the weeks, the months, the years blur and fuse with each other just like they did back then, when Nezumi had disappeared the first time, back before Shion knew anything, before he could even conceive of a life outside of No. 6. 

Compared to that time, when he knew so little of himself and the world and of _Nezumi_ , this period of waiting seems much easier. This time, he _remembers_. Nezumi’s face, his eyes, his lips, the curve of his spine, the soft noises he makes into his pillow when he’s asleep. The sound of his voice in varying levels of pitch and intensity - low and conspiratorial when he thought someone was listening, and then louder, more passionate when they were alone and Nezumi was angry, or frustrated, or scared. 

**

During slower periods, after the rebuilding efforts settle down, Shion searches for Nezumi. Quick day trips to the places around No. 6 that he’s heard Nezumi mention in passing. Inukashi has her feelers out too. But there’s nothing - it’s as if Nezumi has vanished into the ether. 

Sometimes, Shion imagines that Nezumi is watching him, just like he did back then. 

But while there are plenty of mice in No. 6 now, Shion doesn’t think any of them would sit still long enough to listen to passages from Macbeth or Hamlet or Richard III. They don’t carry messages either.

Sometimes Shion talks to Tsukiyo, just like he did back in the West Block, and he imagines that his words are being carried off to Nezumi somewhere, that eventually they reach him, even though he knows it’s impossible. Even if Tsukiyo is perfectly happy to listen – Shion is sure his words aren’t going anywhere anymore. 

**

Mostly, Shion just waits, even if he doesn’t really think of it as waiting, at least not in the strictest sense of the word. 

He’s letting go, he’s listening to his heart, he’s learning that the truth isn’t something you _find_ , it’s something that’s always been there, if you know where to look. 

And once a truth has become known, it becomes unshakeable. It doesn’t change over time - it stays exactly the same, a fixed point. 

This, Shion thinks, is the most important thing he’s learned in Nezumi’s absence. And he’s certain that it will lead him back to Nezumi again. 

**

In the end, Nezumi doesn’t return through an open window, like Shion had always imagined he would. Even though Shion had kept the terrace window on top of the bakery open and unlocked every night, just in case, this time Nezumi comes to the door properly. 

“I came looking for you,” Shion says, and his voice is muffled, pressed tight against Nezumi’s chest like this. “So many times.” 

It’s not what Shion means to say at all, but it just sort of slips out, somewhere in between his heart hammering in his chest, and the realization that Nezumi is actually _here_. His sudden presence is overwhelming, as if Nezumi is larger than life, which, of course he _is_.

There are other, smaller things before that of course, half-sentences spoken into the soft curve of Nezumi’s neck as Shion breathes him in, as he reacquaints himself with Nezumi’s body, with how it moves and bends and shifts in his arms. Words that have no order or meaning or point, but that spill out of his lips anyway, as if his head is too full to speak what his heart is feeling. 

It’s a little chilly outside, and Shion thinks he should invite Nezumi in, instead of standing out here on the steps outside the shop, but he keeps getting distracted. It’s a lot to take in at once – the tiny differences, and the huge ones, between this Nezumi standing here in the dull grey of evening and the one who had left in a blaze of sunlight what feels like a lifetime ago.

“I looked everywhere I could think of,” he continues, his hands moving unconsciously along Nezumi’s jaw, tracing those familiar lines that really aren’t all that different from how they were before he left. “I wasn’t even going to talk to you - I just wanted to see you. What you did all day, where you lived.”

Before Nezumi has a chance to say anything, Shion continues, “It’s not like I didn’t know I’d see you again. I did. I believed in you.”

“I wasn’t angry,” Shion says, feeling his heart race. His voice is picking up steam too – a bit like he’s having an argument with himself. Nezumi, for his part, is just standing there staring at him. “I think my mom was for a while,” he adds, with a tight laugh. “But I wasn’t.”

Nezumi is quiet for a moment, and Shion can’t read his expression. 

“You’re allowed to be angry,” Nezumi says finally. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“But I’m not,” Shion says, suddenly filled with so much conviction, he thinks he might burst from it. “I’m really not.” Shion stares at Nezumi. He feels a bit like a machine with a short circuit. He’s not supposed to be saying any of this. “I wish I was angry. But I’m not. You were right. I was fine.” 

Nezumi’s lips quirk up a little at the edges, and Shion’s heart pounds. “I could leave again. Maybe that would help?” 

And then Nezumi takes a step towards him. Now that he’s so close again, the differences are easier to see. Nezumi has changed, in so many small ways, but he’s also the _same_. He’s taller, and his chest is broader, his neck a tiny bit thicker, but his eyes are exactly the same slate grey of morning as they were that night so many years ago, the night of the storm that changed everything. It’s bizarre, really, that so much could change, while this one thing stayed the same, through all of it. Shion feels the overwhelming urge to laugh, as if it’s bubbling from somewhere deep inside of him. Instead, he takes a shaky breath and waits. 

“I missed this,” Nezumi says, and his fingers clutch at Shion’s shirt, just above his waist. Shion feels Nezumi draw in a long breath. His hands are shaking when he touches Shion’s cheek, like he’s afraid Shion’s going to move away from him, and they steady when Shion doesn’t, when he leans into the touch, and into the folds of Nezumi’s coat (a different coat, one he’s never seen; it’s a little longer, and the fabric folds in on itself easily). 

“Your skin,” Nezumi says, and his voice is so quiet Shion has to strain to hear him, “is as strange as ever.” 

“And this ridiculous hair,” Nezumi adds, tugging on a tuft of hair just above Shion’s right ear. 

Shion just stares at him. “I missed your hair too,” he says after a moment, a bit incredulously, and Nezumi chuckles. “And your laugh,” Shion adds. 

“You must have me confused with someone else,” Nezumi says, warmth creeping into his tone, and it’s like the old Nezumi - the one he remembers from the West Block, the one who had taught him so much about the kind of person he was, has _become_ \- is being rebuilt before Shion’s eyes. “Because I don’t remember laughing that much back then.” 

“No,” Shion says. “You didn’t. But I really liked it when you did.” 

“It’s been three years,” he adds, when Nezumi doesn’t say anything else. He glances up at the sky for a moment, at the stars hanging there above their heads.

“I know,” Nezumi says. “It feels longer.” 

Shion shakes his head. He remembers this; it’s so familiar and so nostalgic at the same time. Nezumi’s words, and his responses, the rhythm of their words, bouncing back and forth off of each other. 

“I don’t think so,” Shion says. “At first it felt like forever, but now…” He stares into Nezumi’s eyes, at the way they shine in the darkness, and wonders how many stories are behind them, how many adventures. 

“I don’t think so,” he says again, and takes a step closer, until he’s so close their noses are practically touching and he can feel Nezumi’s breath on his cheek. Then he presses their lips together tentatively. 

He wasn’t planning on doing this, either, but when Nezumi responds with enthusiasm, when he tugs Shion’s hips toward him and deepens the kiss, Shion doesn’t regret his actions for a second. 

**

Eventually they make their way inside and up to the terrace. Shion makes tea, and brings out a basket of leftover bread from the shop, which Nezumi eyes curiously. He pours the tea into two round ceramic tea cups, filling them to the brim, careful not to spill a drop even though his hands feel twitchy with nervous energy.

“So what did you do all this time?” Nezumi asks, fixing Shion with a curious stare, and of course it’s a perfectly valid question, but Shion’s mind goes blank for a moment all the same. 

Eventually he gestures to the space behind them. 

“It’s been nice, helping my mom out. There’s a lot of work to do,” he explains.

Shion watches Nezumi’s fingers close around the teacup, as he blows across the top for a moment before bringing it to his lips. 

“That can’t be all you did while I was gone,” Nezumi says a moment later, around a mouthful of bread. He raises his eyebrows. “Did you really spend that much time looking for me?”

Shion shakes his head. “Of course not.”

Nezumi smiles a little wickedly. “Don’t tell me you were bored.”

“I wasn’t bored.”

“What then?”

Shion shrugs. “At first there was hardly time to think about what I was doing at all.”

Nezumi just nods. 

“After you left, I continued like that for a while.”

“A jack-of-all-trades then,” Nezumi muses, raising an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“It was different after things settled down…” Shion sighs – suddenly his experience sounds so commonplace, so bland. Three years, and he didn’t have that many stories to tell, after all. He’s sure Nezumi will make fun of him, but he continues anyway. “There was a group looking for volunteers, helping people who’d been left alone after what happened. My mom convinced me it would be a good idea.”

“Giving up your time for free,” Nezumi observes. “That sounds more like you.”

“I didn’t do that much. Mostly I just listened,” Shion says. “I’ve always been good at listening,” he adds, as if this validates it all somehow. 

Nezumi leans back in his chair, so far that the front legs almost come up off the ground. Then he rights himself, and the chair scuffs across the concrete for a moment. “So you were a counselor?” 

“I guess you could call it that,” Shion says. “It was pretty informal, and I haven’t done it for a while. It was more important in the early days, I guess. For people to have someone to talk to.” 

Nezumi is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. Shion watches him take a sip of tea, and down on the street below, there’s a shuffle of movement, a door sliding open, and then closing again. 

“You’re making me feel a little guilty, Shion,” Nezumi says, staring past him, his hands clenched tightly on the table in front of him. “Working so selflessly for the greater good this whole time.”

Shion smiles for a moment at Nezumi’s misunderstanding. 

“I didn’t do it for them,” he says quietly. “I mean, it was partly for them, to help them, but… Mostly I just wanted to hear about how other people felt. There were so many important people that were lost…” 

Shion swallows, and closes his eyes. “I told them about you,” he says after a moment. “When they asked.” 

Nezumi eyes him a little suspiciously. “Why would people ask about me?” 

The teacup is still warm against Shion’s fingers, and he wraps them around the base of the cup as he meets Nezumi’s eyes. “They asked if I’d lost someone too.”

Nezumi just stares back at him, his eyes narrowing a little. “You told people I was dead?”

Shion laughs, but it sounds a bit brittle, forced. “No, of course not. I told them you were coming back.”

“I bet that cheered them up.”

Shion lowers his eyes. “They understood.” 

Nezumi raises his eyebrows. “I see.” 

Shion is quiet, he can’t read Nezumi’s reaction at all – it’s frustratingly familiar. 

“I bet you were good at it,” Nezumi says finally, but his voice sounds far away. 

“It was all the same story,” Shion says, staring past Nezumi, out past the terrace’s railing. “They’d lost husbands, or wives, children, parents. Important people. But it was all the same. The same thing I felt when you left.”

Nezumi watches him for a moment, and then shakes his head. “They must have thought you were crazy, talking about someone like me like that.”

Shion feels his stomach twist a little. Nezumi is still shaking his head, as if he really doesn’t believe him. “They understood,” Shion says quietly.

Nezumi stares at him for a moment. “I can’t believe you told them about me. You really are an idiot sometimes, you know that?” 

“Of _course_ I told them,” Shion says quickly, suddenly frustrated. “I told them everything. How much I missed you, what the world felt like without you in it. And they _understood_. They told me to hold onto you when you came back, but only if you’d let me.”

“Ah…”

“Nezumi,” Shion says feeling the adrenaline kick in as his heart pounds, and he suddenly remembers the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue since he first laid eyes on Nezumi tonight. “What are you doing here?”

Nezumi’s eyes widen. “What kind of a question is that?”

“I need to know, Nezumi. If you’re going to let me stay with you,” Shion says, and he means to sound resolute, and sure of himself, but his voice is trembling. “Because if not…” 

“This is your house, Shion - your city.”

“I don’t mean _here_ – I mean anywhere,” Shion says, and his heart is still pounding, though he’s deflating a little at the look in Nezumi’s eyes. “Wherever you are.” 

And then Nezumi leans over and kisses him across the small table, his hands grasping at Shion’s fingers, and then holding them tight, and Shion thinks that he’d rather have had an answer, but that this is pretty nice, too.

**

The light is changing over the city. Shion doesn’t want the morning to come. He likes it like this – the dim, half-greyness that’s leftover from the darkness, how it seems to shadow and protect them. 

“Why did you look for me?” Nezumi asks, and lets his head fall back for a moment against Shion’s neck, his shoulder. “You know only a complete airhead would do that, right? Of course you wouldn’t be able to find me. I don’t know why you’d even try.”

They’ve moved to the concrete floor of the terrace now, the tea long since finished, their dishes left up on the table to be dealt with later. The ended up on the floor when Nezumi had stood up suddenly, announcing that he wanted to stretch out his legs, and Shion had followed him, of course. The concrete is cold, but Shion thinks he could get used to this, especially with Nezumi sitting so close that he can feel the warm press of his body all along his side.

Shion shakes his head. “That’s not fair. You can’t ask me all these questions without letting me ask you anything.”

“So ask me something.” 

Shion touches the collar of Nezumi’s coat, rolling the fabric between his fingers; it’s soft, but thick, a deep greenish grey, much like the one Shion remembered, but longer, warmer. 

“Where did you get this coat?”

Nezumi gives him a curious smile. “All the things you could ask me, and you’re asking about my coat?”

“So?”

“Fine.” Nezumi sighs, waving his hand in front of them dismissively. “I bought it second hand from a vendor at a shipping port outside No. 4.” 

Shion’s eyes widen in surprise. 

“You went to No. 4?” 

“For a while, yeah.”

Shion doesn’t know much about the other cities around them, and suddenly, he regrets not seeking out more information when it had been available to him. Of course, of course Nezumi would go that far. Of course he wouldn’t stick to familiar places around No. 6. 

“What did you do for money?” 

“First I worked backstage at a theatre there, doing lighting for their shows. The acting gigs didn’t come until later.”

“How much did you work? How many hours? How much did you get paid?” 

Shion is fascinated – the idea of Nezumi going off and making his way in a strange place sounds so foreign and so exotic and so completely suited for Nezumi. He knows Nezumi probably thinks it’s silly, and yet…. He wants to know everything, every single detail.

“A normal amount, I guess?” Nezumi says. “It was a normal job. Decent pay.”

“Where did you live?”

“There was an old hotel that had converted rooms for cheap.” Nezumi pauses for long moment, and then shakes his head. “It’s so cold there – colder than the West Block, even – and when I first got there I was sick all the time.”

“But you never get sick.” 

“It was different there,” Nezumi says, fiddling with the sleeve of his coat for a moment, a strange unfamiliar mannerism. “It was mostly my fault – I suppose I didn’t take proper care of myself,” he adds, and Shion expects him to go on, but he doesn’t say anything else, and it’s quiet between them for a while. 

Down on the street below, the first quiet stirrings of life have started up - shutters being raised, lights switching on.

“There were a lot of things I didn’t know back then,” Nezumi says eventually, sitting up straight, and crossing his legs over each other, facing Shion. “Things I didn’t understand at all before I left. I was really scared.”

“Of me?”

Nezumi stares at Shion for several long moments, so long that Shion starts to feel his skin prickle a little under the attention. 

“All my life, everything was always about survival,” Nezumi says. “And yet… You were all it took.”

“I’m sorry,” Shion tells him. “I knew you were scared and I never tried to--”

Nezumi’s eyes are flashing angrily, and it’s a look that Shion knows well. It’s comforting, knowing that this hasn’t changed, that Nezumi can still turn this look on him in an instant.

“I wanted to _die_ with you, and you’re telling me ‘sorry’?” Nezumi huffs out a frustrated breath. “It’s not something you should apologize for. In fact, it has nothing to do with you at all.”

“Doesn’t it?” Shion asks, and it’s an honest question, but Nezumi just looks at him and _glares_ , and then he stands up. In one quick sweeping flurry of movement, he throws his arms over the balcony, leaning out over the street. 

“It makes me want to scream,” Nezumi says, turning around to face him, his eyes wide. “Like you did, the night I first met you. Just… scream, until my voice is hoarse, and I can’t scream anymore.”

“Is that so bad?” Shion asks, as he stands and joins Nezumi. 

Nezumi barks out a loud laugh. “Well, I suppose it’s fine if you’re a character in a Shakespearean tragedy, but…” 

“But what?”

Nezumi shakes his head. “I needed time to figure out what it meant. What it meant about the kind of person I was.” 

“Did you figure it out?” 

“Why do you think I came here?” Nezumi says, and Shion thinks that this is not exactly an answer either, but it’s close to one, and in the half-light, creeping towards morning he moves closer to Nezumi, leaning back against the railing of the terrace, and pressing their shoulders together firmly. 

Shion holds his breath for a moment, and he can feel Nezumi breathing, can feel the slight movement in his body as his chest expands and contracts.

**

The morning light shines brightly in the distance, and Nezumi is pacing back and forth in front of Shion. He’s talking about the theater, about countless performances – of Shakespeare and Moliere and Ibsen and Brecht. Shion has no idea where this sudden energy has come from, but the animation in Nezumi’s voice fills Shion with a sense of nervous excitement.

“I want to go there,” Shion says and stares at the light that has practically broken over the hills, over the place where the wall had been. He tugs his knees to his chest, and looks up at Nezumi.

“To the theater? It’ll take forever, the train’s still--”

“I don’t care how long it takes,” Shion says quickly. “I want to see the places you went to - everything you did.” 

“Why?” Nezumi asks, staring down at Shion.

“You left because you needed to find something inside of yourself, right? I want to see that place.”

Nezumi is quiet, his eyes searching. Eventually he shakes his head. “You want to know where I found myself?” Nezumi gestures to the air around them, maybe to the whole city. “Right here, staring up at your open window in the rain. In your room. Chronos.” 

“Chronos is gone…” Shion says, and shivers a little, thinking of the rain on that night, of the storm. He wonders if it’s possible for the wind to ever blow that way again, like it did before the typhoon that night so many years ago, almost half their lives ago. 

“I know…” Nezumi lets out a long breath. “But you’re still here,” he says, and reaches down to offer Shion his outstretched hand. 

Nezumi pulls him up and into a strange sort of half-embrace, one that leaves Shion unsteady on his feet as Nezumi snakes one arm around his waist and pulls him closer. 

Then Nezumi buries his head against Shion’s chest, and Shion thinks this might be an answer, though honestly, he’s not sure he remembers the question anymore.

**

“I lied before,” Shion says suddenly, over the dull sound of the train clacking along its metal track. 

This is the third train they’ve been on since they started out what feels like days ago, though he’s sure it was only this morning that his mother had hugged him so fiercely that he thought his ribs might break.

“I’m sorry,” Shion says. 

Nezumi is watching him skeptically, and across the space between their seats, he taps Shion’s shin lightly with his toe. 

“You’re allowed a lie here and there Shion. We’re not kids anymore.” 

“If I’d found you back then…” Shion says, and then stops, swallowing past the lump burning in his throat. “I wouldn’t have just watched you.”

“What would you have done?” 

“I would have stayed with you,” Shion says softly. 

“And what if I told you to go?” 

“I’d have stayed anyway. It would have been impossible to get rid of me.” 

Nezumi’s profile shines in the late-afternoon light of the train. The car is practically empty, and when they shift around a curve, Shion can see rolling green hills through the train’s window, and mountains too, with white tops and rocky tips.

“Hmm.” Nezumi smiles a little. “I probably wouldn’t have minded,” he adds, and then his smile widens. “Not too much, anyway.” 

“And you know what else?” Shion pauses for a moment. “I was angry at you at first. I just got over it.”

Nezumi just stares at him for a moment, and then laughs, deep and loud, and he doesn’t stop until Shion kicks him several times. 

“What’s so funny?” Shion asks, frowning, as Nezumi wipes his eyes. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Nezumi says, shaking his head, and grinning. “You know they weren’t really lies though.” Nezumi raises up a hand at Shion’s confused look. “You were just overcome by my dramatic entrance, and it slipped your mind. I get that reaction a lot.”

Shion sighs at Nezumi’s raised eyebrows. After a moment though, he smiles back at him.

Outside the large windows, the tracks of the train stretch out in front of them - the landscape seems endless. 

Shion hopes that it is – that there’s more to see than there are hours in the day, and days in a year and years in his lifetime. That after Nezumi finishes showing him all the places he visited on his own, they can visit other places too – together. They’ll cling to each other, and not let each other out of their sight, until No. 6 becomes a distant, but colorful memory. 

Shion thinks that this, surely, is an answer that they both can agree on, whatever the question. 

And the next time he finds Nezumi’s lips pressed against his, several hours later, after Shion has moved over next to Nezumi so that they can share a blanket when it gets chilly after the sun goes down, Shion knows in his heart that it’s not a goodbye kiss, or a promise to meet again, or to stay together, or to do anything at all – it’s just a _kiss_.

It feels like morning and sunlight and beginnings and it’s nothing at all like anything they’ve experienced before, and Shion wouldn’t trade it anything in the world. 

It feels like coming home, and Shion has read enough literature and poetry now to know what that means.

No. 6 may be the place of his birth, but the more miles he puts between himself and the city, the more Shion realizes it, and the stronger this truth becomes – his home has always been somewhere else after all. 

_Yes_ , Shion thinks when he closes his eyes, and feels Nezumi’s lips close over his again. 

_Here_.

***


End file.
